In the End
by theDeadTree
Summary: "You don't care about taking someone's life at all, and you know why? It's because this is all nothing but a game to you. You play with people just to have their lives in your hands. You love knowing that you can possess that power over people. You don't really care who they are or where they come from. For you, life is just a childish game that you want to win at any cost."
1. Chapter One

Scott Price stared ahead of him, his eyes never wavering from the fixed position. He could see the guards of the opposing team get increasingly nervous as they all waited edgily for the referee's whistle. Scott's eyes quickly darted around the field, taking note of everyone's position and quickest way through to the ball and then to the goal. It wouldn't take more than thirty seconds if he got it perfectly right. Of course everyone would move to defend, but he could get past them. He could get past anyone. He wasn't hailed as the best football player in his school for no reason.

His body tensed and his eyes returned to the ball, feeling the anticipation that filled him as the referee lifted his whistle to his mouth. Everything seemed to slow so immensely a single second seemed like a full five minutes. Scott readied himself for battle and when the whistle blew, took off like a bullet.

All the others knew him well enough to know his typical plan of attack, so they of course ran straight towards him in an effort to keep him from coming into contact with the ball. He dodged them all with a playful hop skip and jump, laughing as he reached the ball barely a second before three or four others, and promptly took off with it before anyone could get close to him.

The field was bare and muddy due to heavy rain that had fallen that morning, and every time anyone's foot impacted the ground mud would splash up their leg and stain their previously white shoes, socks and sometimes even their shorts. Scott booted the ball to another player on his team just as he was bombarded by defenders and sent straight to the ground in a tangled pile. He quickly got himself free and was back on his feet, running towards the goal, yelling at his team mates. Someone fell over in his path and he swiftly leapt over them, the mud flying from his auburn hair as he flew through the air with surprising grace that would not expect of a sixteen year old football player.

Very quickly the ball was kicked back to him and he headed straight for the goal, nimbly sidestepping anyone who got in his way. He saw the goalie instantly move to defend the goal and instantly started to run to the left, making sure the goalkeeper was following him. Scott then kicked the ball rather forcefully to the right, allowing another player to run in and kick it into the goal before the goalkeeper could move to defend. The ball shot into the goal, hitting the back net before finally heading back to the ground.

"_Yes!"_ Scott yelled, before jumping into the air and crowing incredibly loudly. The other players on his team quickly joined him in the celebration of their winning goal.

"That's time, boys!" their coach called. "Price! Stop that obnoxious noise!"

Scott stopped crowing and grinned at him. "Sorry sir. Can't help it."

Coach Bennet shook his head and walked over to where the entire team of muddy teenagers had gathered. He was a tall man of a generally grumpy disposition, but couldn't stop himself from smiling.

"Excellent practice today. Play like that in every game and we will win the championship for certain this year. It was nice to see you sharing the ball for once, Price."

Scott's lopsided grin only broadened at this comment. The coach smiled and shook his head – it was seemingly impossible to hurt that boy's feelings in any way.

"Alright, that's enough. Don't forget, it's our first game on Saturday, and I want the whole team there, no excuses. That goes for all of you – especially _you_, Price."

At his word, all of the teenage boys shuffled off the field and headed for the change rooms. Someone slapped Scott hard on the back and he turned to see who it was. It turned out to his friend Michael Turner, who grinned at him.

"You'd think Coach Bennet would be used to your crow by now."

"Oh, he's used to it alright. That doesn't mean he _likes_ it," Scott said cheerfully.

"Why do you even do it?"

Scott paused for a second. "I don't actually know. It's just something I do…like a compulsive habit, I guess."

"It makes you come off like a cocky bastard."

"Thank you."

Michael smiled and changed the subject. "I didn't see any of your show-off moves today."

Scott shrugged. "Coach said I should stop cocking about and actually play the game. And something along the lines of the captain of the team actually having to take things with some degree of seriousness."

Michael nodded. "Sounds like him – not that you are even physically capable of taking anything seriously. Still, it would've been cool to see you do another flip off Kieran."

"That was _amazing,"_ Taylor Dean chimed in suddenly. "You're an acrobat, Scott. You could run away and join the circus."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Doing _one_ flip _one_ time doesn't make me an acrobat."

"Except, you've done lots of flips," Michael countered. "You do them all the time because you're a bloody show off. Especially if there are girls around."

"Hey, I can't help it if girls love an athlete."

"What about Eden?" Taylor asked as they lapsed into a brief silence.

Scott turned and gave him an odd look. "What _about_ Eden?"

"…aren't you two an item or something?"

"Uh, no. I don't know how many times I have to tell people, but we're not actually together."

"But you want to be," Michael teased. "She just won't let you because she knows how much of a womanising twat you are."

Scott easily ignored the jab and rolled his shoulders back as they entered the change rooms. "You _love_ me. You wish you were _half_ as good as me."

Michael shook his head. "You're good at everything and the worst thing is that you know it. That's why you're so annoying."

"You sound like Coach Bennet."

"I'm okay with that."

"Not to mention my mother."

"Shut up, Price."

Scott kept grinning as he dried his hair and pulled off his muddy shirt before searching through his bag for his normal clothes. He slipped into his clean shirt, jacket and jeans before hitching his bag over his shoulder, bidding farewell to his team mates and heading back outside where he knew his father would be waiting for him in the car. Eventually.

The second he stepped outside he was greeted by an icy wind that bit at every inch of his bare skin. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and walked over to the car park, quickly scanning the cars that waited there. His father's car wasn't there, but that didn't surprise him. A combination of work, traffic and forgetfulness generally caused David Price to be late when picking his son up from practise. Scott stepped back and leaned against the fence that bordered the car park, knowing he'd get there eventually.

He really shouldn't have come out here. He knew he would have to wait, and he hated being on his own like this. Being around others helped distract him from his problems and prevented him from thinking too much. When he was alone his mind would wander, and that wasn't always a good thing. In fact, it was rarely the case. As soon as his mind started going he could swear that there were voices in the wind that called out to him, trying to tell him something but never quite able to say it. He refused to tell anyone about this out of fear they would think him insane. He had a hard enough time trying convincing his parents that he was of a sound mind without adding hallucinations of voices calling to him.

Maybe he wouldn't have these problems if he wasn't adopted, or if he had some idea of who his biological parents even were.

The familiar sound of car tyres on gravel caused his head to snap up just in time to see his father's car pull into the car park. He quickly got to his feet, grabbed his bag and jogged over to the car, opening the door and sliding in before slamming it shut behind him. His father gave him an odd look, which he thoroughly ignored. He knew _exactly_ what was going to be said; it was the same every day.

"How was school?"

"Fine."

"Got any homework?"

"A bit."

David Price gave his son a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. "You know you can ask me if you need help. There's no shame in not understanding something."

Scott rolled his eyes and stared out the window. "Dad, it's just an essay. I do actually know how to type. It's okay."

"I know you can, I just-"

"-you just think I'm completely incapable," he finished his father's sentence dully. "Despite the fact that I've been doing fine academically for years now."

"I don't think you're incapable, Scott. It's only because I remember how much trouble you used to have and how behind you were."

"Yeah well, you can stop worrying because I'm fine."

A silence fell between them, but Scott knew it wouldn't last long. It never did. His father would find something else to talk about, something else about him to criticise. He always did. That was how these conversations generally went.

"So how was practice?"

And of course, he chose to change the subject to football. Rather than give an actual answer, Scott made an incoherent grunt and shifted in his seat so he was away from his father. Thankfully, this had the desired effect and no further attempt at conversation was made. The two sat in a somewhat tense silence for the rest of the way home.

Scott Price stared mindlessly out the window, watching the world around him congeal together into one senseless blur of vague colour. He was a lie. His whole life was a lie. The personality that he outwardly displayed didn't belong to him, like it wasn't really who he was. According to everyone who knew him, he was confident, so ridiculously self assured to the point of cockiness. In truth, he had never felt so lost and generally directionless before.


	2. Chapter Two

Eden Parker wasn't the kind of person who made friends easily. That was a fact Scott had found out some years previously when they first met, and a fact he remained painfully aware of to this day. He could still remember when they first met. They had gotten talking because Scott seemed to remind Eden of someone she used to know. They managed to find enough that they liked about each other to become and remain fairly good friends, much to the shock of everyone around them, of course. Since then the two of them had been widely presumed to be a couple, even though it was denied by both parties and always would be. The truth was simply that neither of them saw the other in romantic light. That wouldn't ever change.

"So why are you calling me so late at night? Scott Price the insomniac has made a glorious return, has he?" Eden's voice asked dryly.

"I'm not an insomniac," Scott muttered vaguely into his phone as his head hit his desk. It wasn't such a ridiculous hour…just because his parents were asleep didn't make it absurdly late. They were still on the earlier side of midnight, therefore it was okay.

"Not an insomniac, simply someone who has no need of sleep like the rest of us petty mortals."

"…something like that."

The two had been friends for as long as Scott could remember – although it was true that he couldn't remember that far back. He had been diagnosed with retrograde amnesia a long time ago and nothing he ever did seemed to fix that problem. After five years, he was used to the idea of never remembering his life prior to being eleven years old. Somehow, Eden understood. He didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't around her. That was what they had in common – they were both hiding who they really were from the world, pretending to be someone else.

"Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. So _why_ are you ringing me?"

"I need help with this essay," he admitted grudgingly.

"And you can't ask, oh I don't know, one of your _parents_ at a _reasonable hour_ because…?"

Scott moaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't want their help. Besides, they're _not_ my parents."

"Ah. So this isn't actually an academic problem - you're having a bit of angst about being adopted and you don't want to involve them. Okay. You could've just _said_ that."

"I'm not _angsting_ about it, I'm just-"

"Scott, listen to yourself. Angsting is _exactly_ what you're doing. Take my advice and stop it. Stop. It. Right. Now. You're lucky you ended up with parents that care about you and want to help you in any way they can."

"Yeah, to the point it's _annoying._ It's like they don't actually know who I am; they just see the illiterate eleven-year-old I used to be."

"To be fair to your adoptive parents though, you _were_ a completely illiterate eleven-year-old. I should know, I was there. You couldn't tell A from Z."

"Well yeah, but I'm not anymore. I've been reading and writing perfectly for, what, three or four years now and they're still treating me like they did back then."

"So your parents don't understand you. Does _anyone_ our age have parents that actually understand them?" she said in a dreary tone. "It's only the most typical teenage angst subject _ever. _We all have secrets, after all."

Scott had to consciously resist the urge to moan exasperatedly at her comment. He wasn't annoyed at her – he was _never_ annoyed at her – he was annoyed at himself for, once again, not bothering to think about the situation Eden was in. It never seemed to cross his mind that she might be having problems with her family too. In fact, he _knew_ she was. He was the only one who did. She had trusted him with that knowledge. Why she still bothered to remain his friend when he was so frequently insensitive he had no idea.

"Still trying to decide whether or not to come out properly, then?"

"That _is_ the eternal question," she muttered. "Dare I publicly confess to my lesbianism or remain silent and live to see another day?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Scott's lips. "If it's any incentive, it's starting to get really awkward when people ask me if we're a couple."

She laughed. "That's _still_ a thing? If we haven't gotten together in the past how many years we've known each other, what makes them think we'll do it now?"

"Bare in mind that they're all under the assumption that you're straight, and I'm…you know, me."

"Mmm. Popular football player guy with a closeted lesbian best friend. Why do I think it'd be more normal if I was straight and _you_ were the gay one?"

Scott leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Because popular culture, I guess."

"You sound like my Grannie Jane."

"Gran- wait…that's your grandmother?"

"That's the one," she told him cheerfully. "Good ol' Grannie Jane. She's always like; 'popular culture can shove it, everyone knows my stories are better'. Seriously, she actually said that to me."

"Sure."

"You should meet her sometime, Scott. I reckon you'd get along spiffingly."

"Maybe one day I will."

"So anyway; this essay. I assume you're talking about the Hamlet one?"

"Yep."

"I'm so sorry Scotty darling, but I'm still reading through the actual play. I can help you with it tomorrow, maybe? It's not due until next week, after all."

He winced a little in reaction to her referring to him as Scotty, but quickly got over it. "Yeah, sure. Thanks Eden. I appreciate it."

"We'll have ourselves a good old study-buddy day. We can even go to the library, just to make it seem more official."

"Cool."

"Talk more at school. Okay see ya."

Without another word, she hung up.

"Bye," Scott muttered into the dead phone. The fact that she had hung up abruptly didn't bother him – she was in the habit of quickly hanging up when her parents were around in order to spare herself from awkward questions.

He placed his phone down on his desk before getting up clumsily and shuffling over to his bed before blindly collapsing onto it. He stared aimlessly at the cracks in the paint on the ceiling, trying not to think. About anything. The second he thought about anything in a remotely serious way, he would quickly and inevitably begin thinking about himself and his life, wondering about the person he used to be and if it were possible for him to regain the life he'd lost. He would wonder no one had come to claim him and if he'd been abandoned. Logic caused him to believe that it was most likely. After all, if he had simply run away, surely someone would've come to claim him?

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Here he was, thinking about it despite trying his best not to. What was _wrong_ with him? It'd been five years ago. Whatever his true origins were, they didn't change the situation he was in now. He had to realise that. Eden was right. He needed to stop whining, get over himself and refocus on life. After all, there were other important things to think about – like schoolwork and the fact that the first game of the season was in two days time.

He rolled over and pressed his face against his pillow, resisting the urge to scream. Who was he? Where did he come from? He couldn't have simply appeared from nowhere. He used to be someone, before he was Scott Price, the popular sixteen year old football player that hid his real feelings from everyone, save his closet lesbian best friend. The problem was finding out whom that other person was. Maybe then, if he knew, he could get a grip on reality again and move on with his life.

Scott pushed himself back into a sitting position and began to massage his forehead furiously.

"What am I even _doing?"_ he asked himself in a highly agitated tone. "Am I actually going _crazy_ or something?"

"Define 'crazy'," a light, bell-like voice that was strangely familiar told him.

Scott whipped around and search his room wildly, but found nothing. His eyes widened in shock and he pressed himself against the wall. He knew why that voice was familiar.

"No," he whispered to himself. "Oh no. Not this. Not again. You're not hearing voices again. You are _not_ schizophrenic. You're just tired. Get a grip, Scott."

He waited for about thirty seconds, only to hear silence. He breathed a sigh of relief and slowly lay back down on the bed. It was nothing. Nothing at all. He wasn't insane. Everything was fine.

No matter how many times he repeated those phrases to himself, he couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he was wrong. Everything was _not_ fine. Nothing would ever be fine, not ever again.


	3. Chapter Three

Scott slept fitfully that night. He would wake up once every hour or so, sweating and shaking with the last few images of whatever nightmare he'd been having quickly fading from his mind. He never remembered any of his dreams, or nightmares – his subconscious never did like to mix with his conscious mind much. The only thing he ever remembered was an iron claw, dripping with blood.

That single image had haunted him just about every night for the past five years.

Finally, after the third time this happened, he tossed the covers aside and stumbled blindly out of bed, feeling his way pointlessly through the dark in an effort to find the light. His bedside lamp abruptly came on, flooding the room with a pulsing, faintly blue light. Scott squinted for a few seconds, unsure if the lamp usually gave off that kind of light. Eventually he shrugged and staggered to the door, wrenching it open and heading straight to the bathroom. He really needed to clear his head. Clearly he was exhausted and needed to sleep if he thought the lamp's light had changed.

He leaned over the sink and splashed his face with cold water several times in some vague effort to wake up properly. He didn't want to try to go back to sleep if he was in for yet another one of _these_ kinds of nights, and if there was anything aside from football that he was good at, it was functioning on very little or no sleep. After all, he'd had a lot of practice. Presumably a side effect of continuing nightmares.

He should probably tell his parents about them at some point.

When he arrived back at his room, he saw that the lamp was once again off. The globe must've burned out. He flicked on the ceiling light and promptly collapsed back onto his bed, stifling a huge yawn.

"…so I'm going to have to come right out and start actually _talking_ for you notice me, am I?"

Scott rolled over and threw the covers over his head with a loud, tired groan. He didn't have time for this. It was late at night and he was tired to the point he was half asleep already. Audible hallucinations would have to wait at least until morning.

"Trying to ignore me isn't going to help you…what name are you going by these days? Scott? I heard someone call you Scott before. I guess Scott's okay. It doesn't really suit you, but that might just be my opinion. Whatever. I'm going to call you Scott now."

He blinked several times and sat back up, looking around his room. When he found nothing, he grew increasingly confused.

"Either I'm dreaming, having a vivid hallucination, or…"

"Or someone is in your room late at night," the voice finished his sentence for him in a dull tone. "How terrifying. What on earth will you do? _Squash _me? You don't even know where I am."

He jumped violently and leapt out of his bed, searching wildly around his room for the source. Still, he found nothing.

"Bedside table."

He blinked. "What?"

"I can tell you're looking for me, it's kinda obvious. I'm telling you to save you the trouble – bedside table."

Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face the bedside table. It didn't seem any different than usual, until something shifted. As he approached, Scott noticed that there _was_ in fact something – something _alive_ – there, perched in a rather ladylike position a top his alarm clock. The distinctly female creature grinned up at him.

"Long time no see."

"What?"

She stretched and yawned, fanning her blue wings that were bizarrely similar to that of a dragonfly. "Yeah, I thought that might be the case. Well done. Way to grow up and convince everyone you're dead."

"I- …I don't know what you're talking about."

She smiled crookedly. "I know. If you did, you'd be glad to see me."

His knees buckled from the pure, undiluted shock and he was back on the bed before he even realised what was happening. The creature – which was rather obviously a fairy, even Scott refused to admit it to himself – stood up, brushed the dust off her leaf skeleton dress and casually jumped off the alarm clock. It was only now Scott saw that she seemed to emit the same light from before – the strange, faintly bluish one. He realised that he hadn't turned on his lamp at all; she had simply hidden herself in it and passed her own light as the light from the lamp.

He really _was_ delusional with fatigue.

"What did you do to yourself?"

"…I'm hallucinating. Or delusional. Or both. There's no way this is happening."

She ignored him. "Look at you. James will have a _field_ day when he sees you like this. You're all _taller_ and _older_ and _teenager-y_…not to mention your voice is deeper."

"It broke. That happens."

"It wasn't supposed to happen to _you."_

"What the hell does that mean?"

She folded her arms and turned on the spot so her back faced him, saying nothing. Scott stared at her wordlessly for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and throwing the covers over his head.

"I don't have time for this."

She didn't seem all that impressed by his attempt to go back to sleep – if he wasn't asleep already and this was all in fact, a dream.

"You're going to write this off as another weird dream or stupid hallucination? How many times do I have to this in order for you to recognise that this is _real?_ That this is _all_ real? The voices only you can understand, the reason you can't express yourself to anyone, the nightmares and the life you can't remember, they're all a part of this great big existential crisis you're having."

"I did _not_ ask for a tiny winged person's opinion on my life."

"I have a _name,_ you know."

"I don't _care."_

She laughed bitterly. "It's amazing, how much you've changed without changing at all. Forever the annoyingly cocky child, aren't we?"

He rolled over and glared at her. "I'm not a child," he snarled viciously.

"No _'Scott'_, a child is _exactly _what you are."

Scott once again vanished beneath the covers. "I'm not going to get into an argument with a figment of my imagination."

"You can't ignore me. And I'm _not_ a figment of your imagination."

He buried himself slightly more beneath the bedspread, but otherwise made no response. After thirty seconds or so, she relented.

"Okay…so maybe you _can_ ignore me. Well fine, have it your way. But I'll be back."

Only when there had been silence for a full five minutes did Scott timidly reappear from beneath the blankets, and found that he was indeed, alone in the dark. He breathed a loud sigh of relief and rest his head back upon the pillow, asleep in seconds.


	4. Chapter Four

"You sir, look like death," Eden told him for what could have been the fifth or sixth time that day – Scott had lost count. She was right of course – he'd had the mental capacity of a zombie practically all morning and was thankful that the day was finally drawing to a close. When she saw that he wasn't reacting to her comment, she brushed her hair out of her face only for it to fall back right in her eyes. She made a faintly annoyed grunt and began to methodically scrape her hair back.

"Why, hair?" she moaned. "Why do you have to be precisely the _wrong_ length?"

"Cut it?" Scott suggested as he tried to stifle yet another huge yawn.

"What sense would cutting it be if I'm trying to grow it out?" she told him a little sharply. Her expression quickly softened, however. "And you say you're not an insomniac. You're in a right state."

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Because admitting that you have a problem would undermine your masculinity."

"Or I could just not have a problem."

"Well excuse you, but considerable trouble sleeping sounds like a problem to _me."_

"I'm _fine,_ Eden."

She stopped where she was, hands on hips, and gave him a very motherly look. Scott ignored her and kept walking. He was tired of that look. He was tired of people mothering him. Sometimes he wished that Scott Price the cocky, popular idiot wasn't a façade. Maybe if he tried, _really_ tried, that could be a reality. But he was tired. Tired of pretending he was fine, tired of not knowing who he was or where he'd come from. He had more of a sense of belonging in his nightmares than he did the real world – and he didn't even _remember_ those.

He ran his hands through his hair and moaned exasperatedly. "I just…I keep having nightmares."

"About what?"

Scott closed his eyes and tried to remember, with little avail. "I don't know. I don't remember them."

She cocked her head at him, a curious look on her face. "You still don't remember any of your dreams?"

"What do you mean _'still'_?"

"You've told me about this before," she informed him with a shrug.

"That doesn't surprise me."

She rolled her shoulders back. "I can't imagine not remembering any of my dreams. Mine are all so ridiculously vivid. Can you really not remember _anything?"_

His eyes narrowed as he tried to think. What _did_ he remember about his dreams? He daren't tell her about the one he'd had last night – Eden may have been the more understanding people out all everyone he knew, but even she had her limits.

"Well there's…a claw or something. I don't know."

"A claw?"

He blinked. "No…claw isn't the right word…it's more like a hook."

A chill ran up his spine as he said this. Suddenly he was glad he couldn't remember. Eden seemed to have much the same reaction.

"Sounds creepy."

"I get that impression too," he muttered before promptly changing the subject. "Thanks for helping me, by the way."

Eden grinned widely at him, distinctly reminding him of the Cheshire cat and stopped as they reached a junction in the road. Scott stopped too, only now realising that Eden's house was not in the same direction as his and they were about to part ways.

"No problem. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

He jumped in surprise. "Tomorrow? What's tomorrow?"

"First game of the season, isn't it? I thought I'd watch. You know, in case you decide to remind the world that you can do a flawless front flip."

"Right. Football. That's still a thing. Man, I've been _so_ out of it lately."

"Yes you have. I advise you go to bed early and make sure you get some sleep. Sport requires an alert mind, you know."

"Who are you, my mother?"

"You wish I was. I'd be the best damn mother ever."

He just smiled and gave her a vague wave goodbye, which she returned before turning and disappearing down a street, leaving him alone in the corner of the intersection. Realising that he was standing stock still where he was and most likely attracting attention to himself, Scott rolled his shoulders back and began walking back to his own house. He really should've called his parents and gotten them to pick him up or something. Walking alone was never fun. Being alone at all was not something he typically enjoyed.

_The game tomorrow,_ he thought. Think about the game. He couldn't believe he had forgotten all about it. What happened to the point in his life when football was practically all he cared about? When it was more than a distraction and something he genuinely cared about and was good at? First game of the season. First chance to prove that he wasn't totally useless.

Scott wrenched the front door open and staggered his way up the stairs, ignoring his parents' calls as they tried to ask if he was feeling alright. Finally he came to his bedroom and collapsed upon his bed. His eyes closed for what to him seemed to be barely a second before an eerily familiar voice called out to him.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say living like this is wearing you out."

His eyes flew open and he immediately bolted upright, looking around his room wildly before finally looking at his bedside table. Sure enough, there she was, the same creature from the previous night, staring up at him with a wide grin on her face. Scott very quickly retreated to the furthest corner of his bed in some desperate bid to get away from her. She didn't seem to be at all bothered by his reaction.

"Hi again, by the way."

"I'm dreaming. I've _got_ to be dreaming."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Peter."

Scott blinked in surprise and looked at the fairy creature with a curious expression. "What?"

"Oh, did I say Peter? Sorry, slip of the tongue. I mean _Scott."_

"Who's Peter?"

She folded her arms and arched an eyebrow at him. "You are. Well, you _were."_

"But I'm not-"

"You were called Peter _long_ before you were ever called Scott. I, of all people, should know."

Cautiously, he approached the fairy, whose grin had since turned into a smirk. She leaned back against the lamp and watched him with an amused expression.

"Wait…you…you knew me? Back then?"

"No, I just so _happen_ to know your real name for _no conceivable_ reason. Of course I knew you before you hit your head and wound up stranded here. Why else do you think I'd come all the way out here to track you down if I didn't? What kind of sense does that make?"

"So…you were there. You know who I was. You have to tell me!"

She turned her back to him and jumped off the bedside table and darting to the window before turning back to face him and hovering there. Scott watched her, and for about thirty good seconds, neither of them moved or said anything.

"I can't tell you."

"What? But you-"

"I can't _tell_ you," she cut across him smoothly, "but I can _show_ you. And I can make you remember."

"Remember what?"

"_Everything._ All you've got to do is come with me."

His eyes narrowed. "And where are we going, exactly?"

She just smiled and slowly drifted out the open window. "Home."

He pulled back, his mind reeling. Slowly, he slid off the bed and walked over to the window, where she waited for him, hovering in mid hair like it was nothing. Scott watched her for a second or two before looking at the ground and back to her. She beckoned him warmly.

"You just gonna stand there or what?"

"What do you want me to do? Jump out of a second story window? I'll break both my legs."

"No you won't. If you fly, you won't fall."

He glanced edgily at the ground once more. "If I _fly?_ Do I _look_ like I can fly? I don't have wings like you."

"You don't need wings," she told him before flying even further from the window. "If you want answers, you're going to have to trust yourself not to fall."

Scott shook his head. "I can't believe I'm being talked into suicide by a _fairy."_

She didn't say anything in reply, just stayed exactly where she was, waiting for him. Finally, Scott gritted his teeth and jumped.


	5. Chapter Five

The ground was hard and cold, partially hidden beneath a thinning blanket of snow. Scott rolled over with a groan – he didn't remember it snowing recently. He didn't remember it even being winter yet. It had still been at least a few months away as far as he could remember. Just how long had he been out for? Surely not that long, or he would be dead. And why was he lying on the ground outside in the snow? He could get hypothermia out here, and no one seemed to care. Either that or he was totally alone.

"You should crash into trees more often. That was hilarious."

He opened one eye blearily to find the fairy buzzing contentedly above him. He pushed himself upright and looked around wearily, trying to make sense of what had happened and where on earth he was. The plants that surrounded him like icy skeletons didn't look like what one would typically find in a snowy climate. Nothing seemed to match up with his understanding of the world. He was certain he had never been to this place before; everything was vague and unfamiliar. And yet…he couldn't rid himself of the feeling that maybe, just maybe he _did_ know this place.

The fairy had she was taking him to a place she called 'home', but he still couldn't for the life of him work out what that was supposed to mean.

"Where…where are we?" he asked jadedly as everything slid in and out of focus. "How did I get here?"

"Well, I'd say something like 'second to the right and straight on till morning', but you only used to say that to sound smart, as I recall."

He fell back against the ground. His head hurt too much for this kind of thing. The known facts were simply this; he didn't know where he was, he couldn't really remember how he got there, only that he did somehow, after jumping out of his window. Maybe he killed himself when he fell and this was some kind of bizarre afterlife? It made sense with what the fairy had told him. If that were true, the after life wasn't at all how he imagined it would be. He certainly didn't expect to be able to feel pain, or cold.

"You just gonna lie there and let yourself freeze to death?"

This couldn't be the afterlife if he could freeze to death. After all, one couldn't die if they were already dead.

"_Yes,"_ Scott replied. "Please, let me freeze to death."

"The world doesn't work like that, Peter."

"Stop calling me that."

"You want me to call you Scott even though it's not even your real name?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "It's the name I grew up with and the only name I remember being called, so yeah, I'd prefer Scott."

She ignored his remark completely, much to his irritation. It seemed like she only heard what she wanted to hear, and nothing else. She selectively ignored him so many times he figured he should be used to it by now.

And he still didn't know her name. He didn't know anything about her.

"So…nothing about this place is ringing any bells?" her voice cut through his vague train of thought.

He staggered to his feet and instantly began shivering. "Uh, no."

She snapped her fingers in annoyance. "Damn. I was hoping you'd just remember, being back here."

"You really have no idea how retrograde amnesia works, do you?"

"Do _you?"_

He looked away. "Yeah, I'd think so."

"You're a lot of things, Peter, but I don't think a proper amnesiac is one of them."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped, not even bothering to insist on being called Scott.

She shrugged innocently. "All I'm saying is that maybe the reason behind your lack of memory might not be what you think it is."

He turned back to face her, arching an eyebrow. "You're going to have to elaborate a little more than that."

"I'll be as cryptic as I damn well please. It's your own fault you don't remember."

"You can't do that!"

"Do what?"

"Refuse to tell me anything!"

She grinned. "I thought I already told you that I _can't_ tell you what you want to know? Telling you isn't the same as you remembering, and it's not going to help achieve that outcome. I brought you here because I thought it might trigger something, that's all. From now on, you're on your own."

"Well gee, you're a great help. I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I'm leaving."

"You can't leave this island without flying," she called out to him dryly as he stalked away.

Scott stopped, and turned. "What?"

She perched herself on a nearby tree branch and fanned her wings rather dramatically. "The only way to get here is by flight. Since you're old, I doubt you'll be able to fly on your own like you used to. It's a miracle you got here at all, actually."

"Okay firstly, I'm sixteen, that's not generally considered _old._ And secondly – I had to get here somehow, didn't I? So I can get back."

"Good luck getting home without my help. I'll be here when you give up, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Scott muttered as he, once again, turned to leave. The fairy didn't make any attempt to stop him this time; she simply sat there, watching his retreating back with a cruel smirk etched upon her face. He would be back. She knew he would be back. The second he realised that it was impossible to leave without her help, he would come crawling back. And maybe, during his time alone on the island, something might come back to him. He might come back to her as the boy she used to know. He wasn't dead. There was still hope for him yet.

"You'll remember," she murmured mostly to herself. "You'll remember, even if I have to make you, Peter Pan."


End file.
